


Thaw

by dvs



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bucky Barnes is a resilient badass, Gen, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 09:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1599431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvs/pseuds/dvs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,<br/>If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?</p><p>-- Ode to the West Wind, P.B. Shelley</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thaw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nel_ani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nel_ani/gifts).



> Wishing Nel a Happy Birthday <3

Barnes doesn't know how much time he spends huddled under a bridge, staring ahead blankly, letting memories flood his mind, grabbing at them with greed in case they fade, or are somehow snatched away again. Hydra have taken so much already. A life, a limb, a self that feels as if it is made of paper thin patchwork. He was a man once, with a mind of his own. Not a thing that has unfailingly followed orders like a machine. He remembers...

“Shelbyville. Born in Shelbyville. Nineteen twenty- Twenty...”

“Nineteen-twenty?” asks the man in front of him, less man and more rags, dirt and unkempt hair. He takes a swig from a bottle of liquor half-concealed in a crumpled brown paper back. “You high, son?”

“Bucky Barnes!” A figure snaps at him, cocky and dressed smart in a uniform, a man out of time. “That's your name, pal. James. Buchanan. Barnes. Born in Shelbyville, 1925. Ring a bell?”

“I can't remember,” Barnes tells the figure. He can remember other things. Every kill at the Hydra hand attached to his body. Her, the woman. The red-haired woman, he remembers her. Remembers and wonders how she survived him. He frowns, grabbing at wisp of memory, whispering, “Widow.”

“Here. Take some. You look like you need it,” the old man tells him, holding out his drink. Bucky looks at it for a moment and slowly reaches out for the bottle. The drink is bitter, but its heat spreads through him, soothing the cold in his chest. “What's with the arm? That's a weird get up too. What is it? Like a costume or something?” 

He looks down at himself, at the arm, unable to tear his eyes away from it. He should rip it out. The things he's done. The things they made him do. “They made me.”

He looks up at the old man who is watching him with worry, eyeing the bottle still in his hand. “Made you what?”

He closes his eyes and thinks of him. Captain America. No... no, that was what Hydra called him, He's Steve. It hurts to remember the look on his face, on his bruised face. 

“You okay, buddy?”

He opens his eyes and shakes his head. “I'm James Buchanan Barnes.”

# *

The Winter Soldier never really slowed down to see the world he was aiding to dismantle. Or at least, Barnes doesn't think he did. Who knows how many times he had this same thought before it was ripped from his mind. Maybe Barnes does know it well, maybe that's why it's full of curiosities rather than mysteries.

Everything is louder and faster than the place he comes from, but he has no fear or anxiety about the noise and speed. No, instead his heart flutters at the gnawing sense of loss that accompanies his attempts to recall the past. He once had a friend for whom he could lay down his life. One who he tried to kill. We were supposed to be fighting on the same side, he thinks. Looking down at his metal hand fisted in his lap, he thinks of Hydra and how easily he could spend a lifetime crushing every new head that rears its ugly face, crushing it using their very own weapon.

# *

What remains of Hydra will try to find him. What's left of S.H.I.E.L.D will be looking for him too. So he hides in plain sight, becoming invisible like the other homeless drunks he's seen ignored by most, wearing a rag-bag mixture of clothes. It suits him fine until he sees a man on the street with a sign asking for help, a sign that says he's a war veteran.

Is this Hydra? Is this part of their plan to ruin the world, creating a society that asks for more than it gives back? Both S.H.I.E.L.D and Hydra should go to hell together, Barnes thinks, as he smashes a hole in a wall before stealing what he can from the confines of an ATM machine, his arm having disabled all the precious surrounding circuitry. He keeps some of what he steals and hands some of it in a bag to the war veteran who is still ignored by most.

He has years of creating chaos to make up for. He may as well start straight away.

# *

Barnes spends a lot of time holed up in a motel room, standing by the window and watching the street below. He's managed to secure some funds, it's what the arm is for. He's done plenty for Hydra, their contraption may as well do something for him, he thinks, as he looks at the bag stuffed with notes sitting on top of the narrow bed.

He has food, but he's not hungry. He's itching for something different. A smoke and drink is what he needs, preferably in a place filled with more smoke and drink. Smoke and drink, and no trouble. He's not looking for trouble, not yet. He takes a walk for a pack of smokes and a bottle of bourbon. It's a bit early in the day, but he's an old soldier with money to burn, what the hell. 

Barnes is lighting up on the walk back to the motel room when he hears a commotion down an alley way. His feet stop right in front of it and he can't help but look, tilting his head at the dark alley where a thickset man with a shaved head has a weedy looking guy up against the wall. He sees the glint of a knife and before he knows it he's tapping the thug on the shoulder, watching him turn around, looking both surprised and annoyed.

“Everything okay here?” Barnes asks. 

The thug turns around, confusion written across his ruddy face. He brings his flick knife into view and tells Barnes, “You got a death-wish or something?”

“I've got a problem with bullies,” Barnes says calmly. “You a bully?”

The thug blinks, looking surprised, before lunging without warning. Not that Barnes needs a warning. He reacts before he's even thought about it, allowing the knife to meet his arm, where it finds an immoveable object and glances off. It's Barnes's very human hand which wraps around his attacker's throat and lifts him off the ground. Behind him, his recent hostage sees the scene and runs as fast as he can, escaping both the thug and Barnes.

Out of the shadows emerges Bucky Barnes, one hand in pocket, the other bringing a cigarette to his mouth. He takes a drag, shaking his head as he watches the escaping youth. 

“Time was a fella thanked you for saving his ass.” The man in Barnes's grasp is gurgling in an attempt to speak. Bucky pulls a face around the cigarette in his mouth as he peers up at the man and then leans away. “He's not looking too good there.”

“Next time, pick on someone your own size,” Bucky says, opening his hold and allowing the thug to drop on the ground, watching him gasping for air, before telling him, “Go.”

The thug stares at Barnes before finding the energy to beat a hasty retreat, leaving Barnes alone in the alley, abandoned even by the annoying voice at the back of his mind who has left the thought that you can't set the world on fire and expect thanks for trying to put it out one drop of water at a time.

# *

He wakes in the middle of the night again, sure he's back there in the lab, just before they take his arm. How can they have taken it? He can still feel it. He can still feel his arm where they attached their metal weapon. He can feel it because it hurts all the way to his fingers, non existent flesh fingers, inside the metal fist clenched against his chest, his face pushed into a pillow to muffle the keening sound he can't stop. He'll use his metal fist to smash every last remnant of Hydra, it's a promise made with angry tears. He will destroy them, if it's the last thing he does.

# *

Barnes makes some progress in his daily routine. He moves from standing by the window, to sitting by it in an armchair with his feet propped up on the radiator, cigarette hanging from his mouth, a glass in his hand with two fingers of whiskey. He eyes the drink, thinking it used to be a lot easier to get drunk. Now he only seems to be able to reach that hazy feeling of impending drunkenness; all the promise, none of the pleasure.

Looking at the Hydra arm, he wonders how hard it would be to live without it, to remove it altogether. Barnes goes back to watching the street, amused by the new faces lingering by the sidewalk, engaged in unconvincing talk. They could learn a thing from her, that red-head with the ice-cool temperament. The Widow Romanoff. The memory wipes had never managed to quite erase her face. He thought of it often. He still thinks of it often.

# *

“Thanks man,” Bobby, the war veteran, says as Barnes gives him a pack of smokes. “You don't have to do this though, you done enough.”

“They're just cigarettes,” Barnes says.

“I'm talking about the money, the motel room,” Bobby says. “I don't know what to say. Didn't think anyone gave a damn.”

Barnes feels a pang of anger, somewhere inside under a layer of ice. “You made sacrifices. People shouldn't get to just forget a thing like that.”

Bobby's watching Barnes closely, lighting up a cigarette. “But they do. Don't they?”

Barnes eyes Bobby dangerously. He's not fond of being examined, not by friend or foe. He turns to leave. “See you around, Bobby.”

“That's a crappy way to say goodbye, man,” Bobby calls out.

“I know.” Barnes nods. He's never really been one for goodbyes,

# *

Uptown, there's a whole exhibition devoted to Steve and his fearless commandos, which Barnes visits almost every other day. You could be forgiven for thinking they won the whole damn war. Barnes eyes an extremely flattering image of America's favourite poster boy. Maybe they did win the whole damn war, he doesn't exactly trust his own memories, and he never was one for books. The war was won, he leaves it at that.

Barnes walks along, viewing the footage and all the photographs. Everyone who looks at either a movie reel or a photograph of Steve, looks completely entranced. They are in absolute love with him. In this hard and cynical world where goodness is often mocked, Steve Rogers can still get the world to love him. Barnes can see it on the face of a little boy with his father. He can even see it on the face of the father.

Barnes turns away from the scene, feeling a strange hollowing out in his chest, a shuddering as his breath refuses to move to his lungs and his eyes begin to burn. He has done terrible things for Hydra, things to drive this world that can still love and hope to the brink of self-destruction. If he could, he would rip away that arm right now. 

He starts to leave, another picture catching his eye. It's him, his own face. Barnes stares at it for a while, trying to remember what it was to be that guy. Barnes is scowling furiously at the picture. He wants to ask that guy, why couldn't you be stronger? Why couldn't you resist Hydra? How did you let them do this to you? If only he had held on a little longer. If only he hadn't fallen. Steve would have saved him. Somehow, he would have saved him. 

“He'll still try to save you, you know,” Bucky says, appearing at his shoulder in a waft of smoke. “That's the thing about him. He just doesn't know when to quit.”

It should fill him with hope, but instead it fills him with a confused anger. He's angry at himself for letting this happen. But, he realises, deep down he is angry at Steve too. As quick as Captain America is, as strong as he is, why couldn't he have been quick and strong enough to stop Barnes from falling? How could Steve let him fall?

Bucky steps in front of Barnes, smirking at him, one sleeve of his uniform looking empty and limp. “Why couldn't you hold on for a little longer?”

“I... couldn't. I-” Barnes grimaces as a memory teases his mind. “I tried.”

Bucky lifts something in his one remaining hand, a broken peace of railing, which Barnes can't stop staring at until he sees it coming away from the side of the train and remembers falling, remembers his scream in his own ears.

# *

Barnes watches the street, pulling his baseball cap down low, the collars of his jacket up high. There's a car parked on the street with a man on a cellphone. A woman is pushing an overly large buggy down the street, her gaze ahead. A mail-man is loitering too close to the motel, frowning hard at the package in his hand. He's not the only one looking too perfectly out of place. There's a youth with a hooded top, hood pulled up as he walks around the corner, hands in pockets, body mostly obscured by the cut of his clothing. Next to him, Bucky is also watching and lets out a long whistle of approval.

Barnes looks through the window, view not obscured by drapes, giving him a clear scene. It's only seconds later that the door to his motel room is kicked open. There he is, Steve Rogers. He's dressed in civilian clothes. This isn't a mission. The people on the street might not be S.H.I.E.L.D Or they might not be friends of Steve. Steve doesn't exactly look cut up about not finding Barnes. He gives Bobby a nod, a quick but curious look, and then leaves. He'll be back, Barnes thinks, to have a small chat with Bobby. 

“God,” Bucky says. “He used to be so much smaller.”

A few minutes later, Steve is leaving the building, standing on the pavement and looking around. Barnes watches the car that's been parked on the street for hours start up and leave. The mail-man moves on. The woman with the buggy has disappeared. Steve walks down the street, crossing it and walking on. The youth Barnes noticed earlier falls into step with Steve, the hood coming off, the flame-hair on display. 

“Now that's a dame,” Bucky says, voice filled with awe and appreciation. 

“Why was he here?” Barnes mutters. To lock him up? To put him away? 

“What are you insane?” Bucky asks. “This is Steve. He's no jailer. He's a liberator. He's Captain America.”

Barnes swallows down that thought and returns his gaze to the motel across the street, where Bobby is now occupying his old room.

# *

The Avengers are saving the world. Again. They do this kind of thing often. Often enough that Barnes is hearing someone say, “Man, I am so tired of this shit.”

Barnes walks against the direction of the crowds, down the rubble-filled street and towards the sound of explosions. Someone calls him buddy and asks him if he's nuts for going in the wrong direction. Barnes just keeps moving, curious and thrumming with unspent energy.

Something zooms by above him, silver, mechanical, like a metal dart the size of a car. It's closely followed by something red, gold and Stark. Is this a Hydra attack? The machines darting through the air could easily be Hydra, but then could easily be anything else. He watches one of them fly into the side of a building, given a helping hand by the Hulk. 

Barnes still has his eyes on the small explosion, not realising the Hulk has him in his sights. The big green guy slowly ambles towards Barnes, looking both intrigued and suspicious like an overgrown toddler. He gets closer and closer as Barnes stands his ground, tilting his head up and up as the Hulk nears. Barnes tilts his head a little, searching for the human in the Hulk. 

The Hulk mimics Barnes's movement before he backhands him, sending him flying through the air. He falls on his face, the most embarrassed he's felt in a long time. It feels good to be embarrassed rather than angry. He slowly gets back up on his feet, only to see another Avenger before him. Her. For the longest time, they both stare at each other, standing yards apart, ignoring the clap of thunder above them, before she makes a run for him, and he responds in kind.

She leads the attack and Barnes plays defense; he has no plan to cause her harm. This is just a dance for old times sake. That is, until she slips around him, perches on his back and wraps a metal wire around his throat. It's a move she favours. Barnes is compelled to fight back now, grabbing the wire with his Hydra arm, and her with his human one, pulling weapon and woman apart from each other. By the time he turns to see her, she's bounced off the bonnet of a car and flipped straight back onto her feet, waiting for his next move.

He runs towards her, watching her get ready to strike as he bounds up off the car dented by Romanoff's landing and toward a flying dart, catching its underside with one hand and punching a hole into its middle with his other, watching electricity crackle around his metal arm as the dart destabilises. It zigzags towards a building as Barnes lets go, falling to the ground, onto a pile of rubble that used to be part of a now half-demolished building. He lies there for a while, listening to the explosion he's caused, his metal arm giving his lost limb pins and needles. Grimacing, he rolls off the rubble, landing on a knee and a foot, rising slowly. 

She's standing there in the distance, scowling at him. They quietly stare at each other, Romanoff's eyes darting to the side. Quite blandly, she says, “Okay. I'm not sure what's happening here right now.”

Barnes steps forward, opening his mouth to speak, but out of nowhere an arrow flies into his path, missing the tip of his boot by a hair's breadth and embedding itself in the ground. Barnes steps back behind the line that's just been drawn for him. He and Romanoff will meet again, for now he'll let her get back to work, and let her friend remain under the illusion that he is somehow protecting her. 

He turns on his heel and walks away, Romanoff calling out after him. “He's looking for you! You should talk to him, or something.”

Barnes ignores her and runs away from the chaos, taking down as many darts as he can on the way as Bucky rides along on a motorbike with a big grin on his face.

# *

Barnes has progressed his smoking and drinking habits by visiting a small bar near his new residence, a slightly less depressing motel than the last one. The bar's a dive, smoky and filled with blue-collar disgruntlement. The TV behind the bar is always switched to sports or the news, this time on phone-captured images of Iron Man smashing his way through one side of a building to another. A metal suit wouldn't have been so bad, Barnes thinks, at least he could peel it away. He looks at his gloved hand, flexing hidden metal fingers around his glass, hating himself for lacking the courage to cut the metal out of his body.

“Look at these guys will you? They're putting their lives on the line and all these news folks wanna do is talk about money,” the guy next to Barnes says. He moves his gaze from the TV to Barnes, nodding. “Goddamn heroes is what they are.”

When Barnes looks up it's a bruised and bloodied Captain America on the screen, answering the questions of a reporter, only as politely as he can. “If there was a way to save the lives we did without moving a single brick, it's what we would have done, son.”

Bucky snorts and laughs, smoke being expelled from his nostrils into the whiskey glass he's holding near his mouth. “ _That_ is why I love him.”

Barnes stares at Bucky, as the guy next to them says, “Goddamn, hero.”

# *

In another night of disturbed sleep, he dreams of a mirror behind which is trapped Bucky, banging his fists and trying to smash his way out. Barnes can see himself reflected in the mirror, his camouflage smeared eyes, his black mask; he is a shadow across Bucky's anxious face.

Barnes raises his metal fist, pressing it against the mirror, watching Bucky ask him to get him out. That's when the rage takes him, like it does in all his dreams. Everything becomes a haze of red as he smashes against the glass which won't break. 

When the haze clears, he is the one trapped behind the mirror, Bucky looking in, not an ounce of sympathy in his eyes.

# *

Barnes is waiting by the window, watching the street below. It's a lively neighbourhood, the sound of music not too far in the distance, the whole street composed of warehouses, like the one Barnes is standing in, one floor of it turned into a spacious apartment. The décor is sparse, with no personal belongings at all and at least one panel in the wall that looks as if it is hiding a secret. When the heavy metal door slides back and Romanoff walks, she already has a gun pointed at him. He watches her reflection for a moment, before turning to face her.

“How did you find me?” She's annoyed at being found out. It suits her. Barnes just silently gazes at her and she rolls her eyes and lowers the gun. “Not just a pretty arm, huh?”

Romanoff walks off towards the kitchen with confident strides and he can hear her rummaging around the fridge. She's probably also discreetly raised the alarm for someone to get here. She comes back downing a bottle of water. When she's finished, she hasn't left even the slightest trace of lipstick. 

“So? What's the occasion?”

Barnes doesn't know how to broach the question. Romanoff's antics have been made public along with those of other S.H.I.E.L.D members. Barnes is still a little confused by how little of what he's read has surprised or shocked him. None of it seems like new information. 

Quietly, he says. “Everyone knows what you are.”

“What's that?” she asks him.

“A killer,” Barnes says. “Assassin.”

Romanoff pulls a disinterested face. “And?”

“And...” Barnes thinks. “You're not. Not anymore.”

Now she's slightly more interested, staring at him with a quiet intensity. “And?”

“How do you do it?” he asks, his voice sticking his throat.

“Do what?” 

He grimaces, the question bitter in his mouth. “Forget everything you did.”

Romanoff smiles humourlessly. “You don't. You get to live with it every day of your life. Live with it, and pay for it. Forgetting is about the only thing you don't get to do.”

Barnes reflects on her answer for a moment, just staring into her defiant eyes. She looks amused and unafraid. Looking away, he makes to leave, getting as far as the door when Romanoff says. “The difference between you and me, Barnes, no one ever made me do anything. I knew exactly what I was doing. I wasn't programmed. I made choices.”

“Assassins don't make choices,” Barnes says, sure he knows what happens to assassins who try to make choices instead of follow orders. “Maybe you shouldn't be so hard on yourself.”

Romanoff stares at him, eyes widening a little, mouth opening but no words coming out. He imprints the look in her eyes on to his mind and leaves as swiftly as he arrived, in time to watch from across the street as Steve pulls up on his bike and walks into the building to meet his assassin friend.

Next to him Bucky is quietly laughing, mimicking him. “Maybe you shouldn't be so hard on yourself, huh?”

# *

Barnes is not quite ready to stand around on a rooftop with a billowing cape, watching over the people down below. Sometimes a part of him wonders if Hydra is right and everyone else is wrong. Maybe the world does need to be overwritten, its flaws deleted, replaced with something better. But that doesn't feel like freedom and that was something he fought for once. Freedom from Hyrda and any enemy who thought it could improve on the destiny of humanity.

So, here he is, perched on a rooftop, hiding under a long black coat, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his head. Down in an alley below Steve and Romanoff are fighting back to back, their opponents alien shape-shifters. The aliens are smart and strong, and they've been giving the Avengers a run for their money for a few days now. 

Barnes is distracted from watching the fight in the alley by a noise above him. He looks up in time to see something spiraling downwards, an unconscious body. He recognises Falcon easily. He seems very unlike a falcon at the moment, nosediving, with one of his wings missing. Barnes runs across the rooftop, waiting by the edge and grabbing the Falcon's one remaining wing just in time and pulling him so he falls on the rooftop instead, sliding all the way across it, before coming to a stop.

Falcon's passed out cold, blood trickling down his forehead. Barnes uses the opportunity to take the fallen man's wing blades, walking up to the edge of the rooftop. Steve's shield is wedged in a wall and though the number of aliens has dropped from four to two, the remaining aliens seems to be formidable opponents, one of them throwing Romanoff at Steve before firing his weapon. 

Barnes leans back and flings one of the blades in his possession, watching Romanoff flip through the air, the blade missing her head by an inch before spinning past her and taking the head of one alien with a swift spin. Steve sees the blade continue on, ducking out of its way, watching it smash through a window. Romanoff looks in the direction of the blade too. The only one who doesn't is a remaining shape-shifter who whips about and looks directly up at Barnes. 

Barnes waves at him. Romanoff taps the shape-shifter on his shoulder and when he turns around, Steve smashes his shield into the shifter's face, while Barnes takes a step back, away from the edge of the rooftop, turning in time to see Falcon coming around, which he does with a groan. 

“The hell?” He sees Barnes and scowls, looking thoroughly confused. Barnes throws down the remaining blade in his hand and starts to walk away. Falcon unsteadily calls after him as Barnes just keeps walking. “Hey! Did you just... where the hell's my wing?”

Barnes walks away and off the roof, leaving a confused Falcon behind. The road to redemption is long and saving one man from falling to his death doesn't cancel out all the men he's pushed to theirs. It doesn't even begin to make a dent in the mountain of guilt Barnes carries inside himself. One life doesn't even amount to a pebble.

# *

“It's turning into a national joke,” the guy on the TV says. “Avengers, mutants, capes and masks. Where does it end? I mean, don't get me wrong, these people have been of some help, sure, but what happens when they turns on us? On the ordinary man in the street? Who does America turn to when Captain America turns on the American? That's worth thinking about.”

“What do you suggest we do?” the reporter asks.

“I suggest we take off their masks. Let these people know they're accountable for their actions,” is the answer. 

Barnes looks to the guy who always has the seat next to him at the bar. He looks thoughtful, as if there's a small war waging behind his fixed gaze. Come on, Barnes thinks, say it. Goddamn heroes, isn't that what they are? If they're not heroes, what does that make someone like him? 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, in a haze of smoke, his eyes blinking slowly, filled with drink. “I guess that's something you have to ask yourself. When the heroes become the bad guys, what does that make the bad guys?”

# *

It's a bad night.

His light sleep is haunted by painful memories. He dreams of his own scream ringing in his ears. He dreams of bloodied snow. The sound of a saw cutting through bone. The shine of metal. The sudden cold, bone-chilling, and stealing the air from his lungs. 

He can't stop shaking, huddled in the corner of the small room, clutching inadequate blankets as he stares wide-eyed at memories that are playing like movie reels. Over and over, the sound of the saw is relentless and his lost limb is crying out in pain. 

He makes a noise, a grating sound in his throat as he slaps the palms of his hands against his ears to shut out a noise he knows well is in his head. Whoever he is pleading with to stop can't hear him, he knows it, but he pleads anyway. When nothing helps, he screams until his throat is raw, repeatedly slamming his back against the wall in rage. There's not much else he can do.

# *

He tracks Romanoff down to a dockyard warehouse, which he infiltrates easily, hiding up on a walkway as he watches the action below. She's been interrogated much more gently than her captors realise. He knows this strategy. It is in fact Romanoff who is doing the interrogating and holding all the cards, even as she kneels on the ground with her hands behind her back. Minutes later she's sweeping the floor with the five men who have been holding her. He takes note that every bullet she has fired has been to wound and not kill.

“Yeah,” Bucky comments. “Not really her style, right?”

Barnes frowns at Bucky and then ignores the comment, leaping over the rail of the walkway, to land behind Romanoff who twists around elbow first, aiming to strike him in his face. He brings his hand up faster than she could ever react, grabbing her arm. She scowls at him, before looking up and back down at him again. 

“You were here the whole time?” He gives her a single nod. Blandly she says, “Thanks for your help.”

Barnes looks down at the fallen men, all groaning and in pain. When he looks at Romanoff again, she makes a face and pulls her arm from his grasp. Barnes takes a piece of paper out of his pocket and holds it up to her, watching her frown at him and then the paper in question. 

“Coordinates to a Hydra safe-house,” he says. She scowls at him and he explains, “I'm... remembering things.”

Romanoff stares at him for a very long time. “You should give this to Steve yourself. And maybe next time you save one of our asses, you should stick around to say hi.”

Barnes turns away, starts to leave, telling her, “I'll find you if I have anything else.”

“He's not going to stop looking for you,” Romanoff calls out. “He doesn't give up easy.”

“Yeah, but that's what we love about him,” Bucky says with a grin, walking at his side. “Right?”

# *

Barnes is waiting when the Avengers turn up at the safe-house, watching from a distance. Their attack is swift, Iron Man and the Hulk leading the way in, allowing Barnes to infiltrate the base unnoticed under the umbrella of chaos, collecting the information he needs to fill in those missing blanks, to find out exactly what's been done to him. Data downloaded, he moves swiftly, aiming his bullets at knees and shoulders, to leave plenty of Hydra for questioning and imprisonment.

Backing out into a corridor, he sees Steve further down, embroiled in a fight with five men, all failing to bring the big man down. Good luck to them, Barnes thinks, they'll need it. He heads in the opposite direction, turning around the corner to find himself face to face with a Hydra agent whose face is familiar to him. The agent recognises Barnes too, but he's not startled or afraid. No. It looks as though Barnes has made a fully expected move. The agent is grinning, the too even grin making his narrow face seem cartoonish. His eyes flick to Barnes's chest, where one end of a syringe is sticking out.

Whatever's in the syringe works fast because Barnes is stumbling back, the world very quickly becoming watery in sound and honey-like in motion. It's a struggle to keep his eyes open. He reaches out for the man, realising that his metal arm is no more than a dead weight at his side. He blinks at the Hydra agent and then stares at his own arm, whilst trying to keep his body from crashing to the ground. His attacker steps close, fearlessly slapping Barnes's Hydra arm.

“I knew it would be a matter of time before you would come here,” he says with a grin. “Did you really think we were just going to let you run around all on your own out there?”

Barnes falls to one knee before completely slumping onto his side, still trying to fight whatever is in his system, but his chest feels as though a tank has driven over it. He feels like he's sinking under water, drowning slowly. Either his heart is beating too fast, or not beating at all. It's hard to tell. He just shudders, curling as he lies on his side, one arm useless, the other one clutched to his chest as he chokes, gasping for air. 

“We need to get out of here,” Barnes hears past the sound of blood rushing through his ears. “Get him in the truck.”

No. He can't let it happen. The first thing they will do is take his memories again. Precious memories he is still piecing back together a day at a time. He can't even begin to imagine the number of scars already on his mind left from each time they have taken his world away from him. He struggles against the hands that attempt to lift him, using every ounce of strength even as it ebbs away. He reaches out to punch, and to grab, twists out of the grasp of however many are holding him, using elbows, using knees, head-butting a man to the floor. But finally, he falls, the drug winning over the adrenaline, the pain landing a decisive blow. 

Memories seem to flood his mind for a moment, memories of being be strapped down, needles, peering faces and a dark room. He can hear explosions, shooting and noise. He opens his mouth to call out for help, but doesn't have enough air in his lungs, his heart feeling as if it's a heavy useless thing in his chest. It's happening again. Wait, what's happening? When did this happen before? Why can't he move his arm? Why does it hurt so much? Who is the woman with the flame-coloured hair? Who is the man in red, white and blue? It's Captain America, Mr. Hitler, and he's coming for you. 

“Bucky!” The command snaps him out of his grey haze and he tries to focus on the red, white and blue, mostly blue, it's all wrong, should be the colour of war, the colour of dirt and fear. “Bucky? Bucky, it's me, Steve.”

“Steve,” Barnes says. The name tastes like charcoal in his mouth. He should be smiling, but his face feels dead. All he can do is mechanically repeat, “Steve.”

“Yeah. Come on, we're getting out of here.”

He feels himself being unstrapped from the hard table he's lying on. He should fight and flail, but that rage that usually seems to sit on the tip of his temper feels muted. He feels completely displaced and he doesn't mind it. He doesn't mind it at all. This feels like a familiar place. If he stays here, maybe everything can be different. Maybe everything can start over.

Barnes feels the weight of his dead metal arm being lifted and slung around Steve's neck. He stares in Steve's direction until some of the fog is forced to clear. It's hard to breath and he feels hot and heavy. He sounds like a rusty machine when he says, “I thought you were smaller.”

It's hard to see an expression behind a mask, so Barnes is unsure that the devastation he sees in those all-American baby blues isn't an illusion of his own making. Maybe Barnes imagines it when Steve says, sounding absent from his own body, “I thought you were dead.”

“We gotta go.” Barnes hears Romanoff, turning his head towards the voice but not finding her anywhere. “I can't stop the countdown.”

Steve lets out a heavy breath, holds on tight to Barnes and says, “Let's go.”

Barnes lets himself be dragged along and in his waking dream, he thinks he looks down into a snowy white abyss, this time without an ounce of fear.

# *

Barnes wakes a few times, floating up towards consciousness to hear warbling voices and see blurred faces, tuning in and out of conversations.

“...Tony and Bruce think as soon as the toxin flushes out of your system, it should be operational again. You'll be arm-wrestling in no time.”

Barnes lies still, slowly moving his gaze to catch sight of Romanoff who is seated by his bed. The expression on her face changes only fractionally, registering that he's awake, but otherwise she as controlled and cool as ever. 

“They should take it,” Barnes says, voice rusty.

Romanoff's forehead dents slightly. It's not confusion, Barnes realises, but offense. She tells him, “He didn't bring you here to dismantle you.”

He sinks into silence, as does Romanoff, quietly watching him from her seat. After a while he tells her, “The Russians call you Black Widow.”

She's wearing her usual calm expression. No shock, no indication that his revelation may not be a surprise. “Do they?”

“Yeah,” Barnes says. “I remember.”

“What else do you remember?” she asks him, keeping all curiosity from her voice.

You, he wants to say. Flashes of you. Different times and different places. Instead, he tells her, “I tried to kill you.”

Romanoff has a thoughtful pout perched on her mouth. After a moment, she nods. “Happens.”

They both share a look, before Barnes returns to his own soft-focused musings and Romanoff goes back to her duty as warden. 

“Black Widow,” she says after a long silence. “I like the sound of that.”

# *

When Barnes wakes again, his eyes feel like rocks, his head a painful weight. His body aches, his muscles sore. He feels a dull ache all the way from his shoulder to his unfeeling metal fingers. The room is dark except for the small lights on various devices, including something that appears to be monitoring his heart beat, the constant beep beep an odd comfort.

On the other side of his bed is Steve, sitting back in a chair and watching Barnes with an expressionless look on his face, illuminated by the gentle glow cast over Barnes's bed. It's funny how every time Barnes sees Steve, he's still taken aback that he's not looking at that scrawny kid who just never knew when to quit. But then, that's exactly who he's looking at, isn't it? Barnes squeezes his eyes shut, listening to the tired beat of his heart.

“I thought you were dead,” Steve says quietly. “I would have come after you if I'd known you were alive, Buck. I wish... I wish we could go back.”

Yes, it was all him. Captain America has time to save everyone but his best friend. The thought sounds like a hiss in Barnes's mind. Sounds like a thought without feeling. Something that doesn't come from his heart. Hydra is still coiled around his mind, prodding him to believe the opposite of all that is true, the truest of which is that Steve Rogers would only give up on his best friend if he truly believed him to be dead. 

Barnes opens his eyes and turns his head to look at Steve. “So do I. But we can 't.”

“So what do we do, Buck?” Steve asks quietly.

Barnes turns his head to see Bucky seated by his bed, feet up on the edge, legs crossed at the ankles as he sits there with one arm stretched back, his palm cupping the back of his neck. His other hand is bringing his cigarette to his mouth, metal hand shining. Blowing smoke out of his mouth he says, “We go forward.”

“We go forward,” Barnes says quietly, turning his head to look at Steve.

Steve nods, looking sombre as he places his hand on top of Barnes's closed metal fist. Barnes blinks down at their hands. His arm shudders with exertion as he tells it to move to his will, and it feels like the hardest thing he's ever done, but he manages to open his fist and turn his hand palm up to clasp Steve's fingers in an awkward grip. Steve stares at their hands and though his eyes look bright when he looks up, he's smiling.

# *

He wakes in the middle of the night again, lashing out at ghosts, completely in the grip of terror, smashing at anything that comes in his way, until he is surprised by someone's foolishness at grabbing his metal arm, right at the wrist as he swings to hit something or someone.

“Bucky,” Steve shouts, both stopping him and waking him before he can smash what's left of a mirror. 

Barnes stares at his own image, face wet with tears or sweat, perhaps both. Days of stubble added to his hollow eyes makes him look ill. His black sweatpants hang low, the jut of his hipbones making him wonder how many meals have been from a bottle. His flesh fist is tight by his side and Steve is there behind him, holding onto his raised metal arm. Where the Hydra arm joins his body is dimpled and scarred skin. His eyes move to the corner of the mirror, one sharp jagged piece hanging without support. In it is Romanoff standing in the doorway, looking at him with something that could be pity. 

He drops to his knees at the same time as the shard of glass, Steve following him down, his arm around Barnes's bare shoulders, his bulk covering Barnes with warmth. As he sits there dazed, catching glimpses of himself in broken bits of mirror, he feels Romanoff kneel by his side and watches her hand appear on his forearm. He looks up at her and they both share a look. He thinks there is a reason why he remembered her, just as there is a reason why he remembered Steve. Reasons why sitting here amongst the pieces of a shattered mirror, he feels safe. He feels closer to home than he's felt in a long time.

# *

Bucky is dropped onto a rooftop by Falcon, not for the first time, landing with ease on one knee and one foot. Falcon flies on ahead, all guns blazing as he goes and Bucky runs along underneath, jumping from one rooftop to another before finally leaping down into a fray of blue faced fighters in metallic combat gear. They're everywhere, descending from the skies as soon as it looks like the tide is turning.

He smashes one skull, twists a neck, and breaks a back before backing into someone. Bucky turns swiftly, smashing his fist down on a very recognisable shield. Steve's eyes flick to his precious shield in annoyance before he and Bucky twist away from each other, Bucky ducking a shot, spinning and kicking someone straight in the face. 

“Bucky!” Steve calls out, and Barnes spins about in time to see Steve's shield slicing through the air and hitting the wall, bouncing off. 

Bucky leaps, pushes off the opposite wall and catches the shield, twisting in the air, a sense of calm overtaking him when his Hydra arm works with Captain America's shield. He lands on his feet, straightening up and holding the shield before him, his metal arm close to his chest behind it as he looks down the alley at the oncoming attack. Running forward, he thinks, Hydra made this arm, but I am still Bucky Barnes.

\--the end--


End file.
